Silver Ashes on the Bloodied Field
by addicted-to-my-reflection
Summary: "In war, there are never any unwounded soldiers." Welcome to the 41st Annual Hunger Games.
1. Forsaken Part I

**District Five, Victor's Village**

The frantic banging on the door was an unwelcome sound to Edison, still half asleep in another vivid nightmare. Grumbling, he turned to face the wall, uncomfortable on the hard couch he was currently residing upon. "God. Who is it?" He called, angrily. "Go away. Go away!"

The knock came again, much to the dismay of the sullen Victor, and he threw off the covers, stumbling away from the couch, toward the wall. His head was sore, aching from the restlessness of another night, and there were black circles, almost shining in their intensity, underneath his despaired eyes. It looked as though the man hadn't slept for years- only half wrong, to be honest.

Edison threw open the door, only to be bombarded by a figure pushing him backward, before stumbling into the house, slamming the door and fumbling with the numerous locks Edison had put there after the Thirty-Eighth Games.

"Who-"

"Shut up, Locke, they're listening." The figure turned, and in the dark light, Edison could make out pale blond hair, dark-set oriental features, and a frame smaller than his own.

"Hell, Minhyuk," Edison said, growling. "Shouldn't you be back with your Capitolite buddies?"

"They're listening to us, I don't- I didn't know where to go. They watch and they murmur and they burned it. They burned it all. They'll burn me too- to ashes, Locke, to ashes…"

"Who?" Edison asked, suddenly alert, though he earned no reply. "Minhyuk, who is listening?"

"The Capitol, Edison!" The shorter man yelled, white and silver hands pressed into his blonde hair as he fell forward. Edison didn't bother to catch him. Despite the years they'd spent near each other since his victory, Edison was hardened. He didn't care for anyone- not even the steadiest, unchanging factor in his life as a Victor. Minhyuk reached up, grabbing Edison's arm slightly. "They're listening, and they're going to find me, Edison, they'll find me! Shit…shit, I can't- I can't do this anymore."

The escort stayed there, unmoving, still madly holding onto his head with one hand.

"You shouldn't have come here," Edison says, voice louder. "It's the first place they'd look, and, either way, I can't help you! I won't help you!"

"You can, Edison, I know you can, so don't even give me that."

Edison paced the hallway madly, sweat running down his forehead. The forty-four year old man was in absolutely no hurry to get involved in anything related to the Capitol. His mind reasoned that this was the closest person he had to a friend, this was _Minhyuk,_ and because of that- though Edison tried desperately to ignore it- he wanted to know more.

"You…chose the wrong person."

"Why, because you're _dead_?" Minhyuk spat. "Well, I'm dead too, Edison. If there's anyone…any_thing_…you're a victor, for Godssake! You have power, even being from District Five! We've been there together, year after year, watching them die…they killed them, Locke, they killed Hyorin, and Cyan and Dara…my daughter…I never…"

"You weren't her father, Minhyuk. Cyan was a prostitute. She never loved you anyway." Edison said coldly. Minhyuk's head snapped up, a forlorn scream ripping from his throat.

"Fuck you, Edison. You don't know what I did to get you out of that arena alive!"

"What the hell did you do Minhyuk? What did you do for anyone?"

"I- nothing- I was- you… I was getting attached, okay! You're from district Five, Cyan was from One…they thought I was getting mixed up, convincing Capitolites they were on the wrong side. I couldn't- they're killing everyone because of me. You're all I have now. They think I'm a threat, they think you're a threat…and they want us dead, Locke. The President…he killed them. He'll kill you."

Edison closed his mouth, swallowing dryly. "They're fucking us over, like always. I don't deserve this…I won…I'm supposed…supposed to be free…supposed to be free, dammit!"

"They'll never let you go, Edison, don't you see that?" Minhyuk was on his feet now, shaking the man's arms, practically screaming at him. "Don't you get it! We're just pawns to them! They're going to kill us! We were always alone except for each other! You don't understand that?" A pause, the desperation showing clearly in the escort's eyes, before he backed down. "We're leaving, Edison. Grab some things and meet me-"

"I won't." Edison said, resilience leaking through. "I'm not leaving. I can't. Where would it get me, in the end? Where would we even go? You're a traitor now. We're threats. You said it yourself, I'm dead. And so are you."

Minhyuk raised his eyes to meet Edison's gaze evenly. "Then you better hurry up and die for real."

* * *

Minhyuk Ahn made it barely two feet out of the Victor's Village before a hand covered his mouth, knife pressing into the flesh of his throat.

"You can't run from us. We'll always find you..."

"You're all psychotic fucks," the escort spat, free hand grabbing the gloved one holding the blade to his throat. "If you want to kill me, hurry up and do it."

"You're a traitor to your own people. Rats like you are meant to be shot down- a waste of space, really." A pause. "But, on orders of the President, I'm offering an ultimatum. A new position has recently been opened...a powerful spot that needs filling after the previous owner...lost her head, you might say."

"Go screw yourself." Minhyuk said, apparent loathing in his voice. The blade nicked his skin, a drop of blood staining his white shirt, and Minhyuk felt a tinge of fear creeping up his spine. "...state it, then. Your...ultimatum..."

"I kill you now, right here in District Five, and arrange it to look like a suicide...or you take the President's offer. You're a wild card. And for that reason, you filthy rat, she wants you to become the Head Gamemaker for the Forty First Hunger Games. Your choice."

* * *

**Welcome, former and new readers! This will be a sequel to Infectious, my other SYOT, and there will be many references to that story as such, though you need not have read it to read this one. Form is on my profile at the very top, though I will not formally accept tributes until the Games have been started in Infectious. As for now, please, submit away. And may the odds be ever in your favor.**

**- J**


	2. Forsaken Part II and Tribute List

**(cont)**

Minhyuk stood still, rigid, eyes drawn at the light ahead of him near the District Five Justice Building. He could barely sense the movement of the blade still pressed to his throat, focused only on those short, ragged gasps that escaped his chest. Practically hyperventilating, he thought, and if the situation wasn't so serious, he might have smiled at that. He was never one to be forced into such panicked states.

At least, he wasn't before.

He had barely seen his daughter in the past six years as she blossomed from an infant into a child. When the house was razed to the ground and all that remained were ashes, it had truly been the closest she'd ever been to him. And Cyan...beautiful Cyan... but it wasn't enough, back then, when he had been younger, and decided he had all the time in the world. He had abandoned his daughter, he had abandoned his lover...and Dara and Cyan were never coming back.

And Edison wouldn't care about anything. Truthfully, Minhyuk knew, the man had broken long before he himself. The Games, back in the early years, had killed the boy he had once been so fond of; only two years apart in age, they had been, and District Five mentorless, so Minhyuk had filled the role of both escort and mentor, as requested by the Capitol. But Edison was bitter and sullen, and though Minhyuk found solace in that unchanging aspect of his life, it was evident that there was no care there. Nothing left for either of them but another broken human to lean on.

And that's what he was, broken.

He had nothing to lose anymore.

So with that thought in mind, a single crystalline drop leaving his eye, he spoke evenly two words.

"Kill me."

* * *

Jagganatha, formerly a medical researcher on corpses, now created them. In truth, he had been apprehensive when the President had ordered him to kill someone- a known escort, on top of it all- but he admitted, it was harder than it looked to fake a suicide.

A severed vein in the arm, blood covering the silver-and-white tattoos, a large stab wound in the throat and it was done, Jagganatha stepping away from the stiff body lying in the blood soaked snow. He had chosen death, of course, but...after that, they still needed a gamemaker, and they were no closer to having one.

...or were they?

Jagganatha allowed his eyes to travel down the snow-covered pathway into the Victor's Village. Edison had not been with Minhyuk; there would only be one reason for that. He felt the sesor in his ear buzz to life with a loud hiss, to be followed by the voice of a woman. "Do we have our Gamemaker?"

"Dead," Jagganatha answered, "but I do have an idea."

"And that would be?" There was irritation in the woman's voice, and he swallowed, before proceeding.

"How would you feel about letting a victor enter the Capitol?"

"Are you suggesting... Locke?" There was a large amount of skepticism in her voice as she spoke.

"He's callous, one of Panem's finest victories. If there's anyone who would be suitable, it's him."

"...Bring him to the Capitol," she answered, after a minute's hesitation. "I should like to speak with him myself."

* * *

**There it is. A former Victor is going to be the Gamemaker for this year's games; a bit unreasonable, yes, but a shocking twist, I thought. **

**Now, for the tribute list (this will be cycled and updated as submissions continue to come. For now, these are the accepted tributes and their spots will not be compromised.)**

**TRIBUTES**

**District One**

Female: Renata Monae, 18 _(jakey121)_

Male: Kyler Gallenge, 18 _(bobothebear)_

**District 2**

Female: Alpha Acraine, 18 _(The Knife Throwing Expert)_

Male: Kolt Morrett, 18 _(nevergone4ever)_

**District 3**

Female: Alexia Lectrion, 16 _(nevergone4ever)_

Male: Keiran Volke, 16 _(hollowman96)_

**District 4**

Female: Myra Costello, 18 _(LokiThisIsMadness)_

Male: Warrick Reef, 18 _(Breaking the Remix)_

**District 5**

Female: Vendetta Maverick, 16 _(Guardianess)_

Male: Cress Fleeting, 16 _(ShayCandyBar714)_

**District 6**

Female: Iris Acune, 13 _(ShayCandyBar714)_

Male: Orphrey Tarrell, 18 _(Aspect of One)_

**District 7**

Female: Eevie Rettle, 16 _(Breaking the Remix)_

Male: Corbin Dulvae, 17 _(The Knife Throwing Expert)_

**District 8**

Female: Lania Dellis, 16 _(LokiThisIsMadness)_

Male: Velion Caden, 15 _(disconsolative utopia)_

**District 9**

Female: Nyla Artone, 12 _(Sunlight Comes Creeping In)_

Male: Milo Farrell, 16 _(infamouskal420)_

**District 10**

Female: Bouvier "Bo" Rusk, 14 _(Vulkodlak)_

Male: Maddox Viatelle, 15 _(bobothebear)_

**District 11**

Female: Namira Hemlock, 18 _(SpaceAgeDino)_

Male: Jerard Karnik, 18 _(Aspect of One)_

**District 12**

Female: Rydel Dimandis, 13 _(nevergone4ever)_

Male: Dalios Foster, 12 _(Elim9)_

_**The next chapter will be posted, with the blog, when I have the last tribute. Which is now. :) See you shortly.**_

_**- J**_


	3. Confliction

Cold and broken-hearted. Callous and indifferent. That's all they'd ever called him, but now there was another word.

Traitor.

The victors, the tributes, his own District- there was no place in the world for him, not anymore. No place but that one he so dreaded, the one that had kept him fearful for years. The Capitol, the only force he would ever bend to, and the one that controlled his life for the past thirty years.

And he wanted out. Oh, how he wanted out. But unlike Minhyuk, Edison Lock didn't have a choice. He was stuck, completely and utterly stuck, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He remembered all the tributes, every single one, that never came back. Every one that died early. Too early.

They were so young. He had been, too. But the world has no need for naïvete, no need for innocence. In this world, there was only a need for blood, more and more and more. How much would it take to quench the thirst of the Capitol?

All of them killers.

Just like him.

He was a killer, just like Serpentine of One, Aristaeus of Two, Zoe of Four, Sungyeol of Six, Garo of Seven- all credited with some of the worst kills in Hunger Games history, all of them considered cold-blooded and brutal, but he had seen it. Serpentine's slit wrists. Aristaeus' controlling attitude which contradicted his tears in the watch room every year, Zoe's paranoia that kept her from sleeping, Sungyeol's drug addiction, Garo's drinking and alienation of the world.

They all had broken.

And now, he was going to be the one breaking twenty-four children, one in particular.

And he hated himself.

* * *

The blog is: silverashesbloodyfield. weebly. com (take out spaces).

The link will be on my profile as well. Now, for some questions!

_Which tribute(s) stood out most to you?_

_Which district pair seems the most interesting?_

And of course, _How was my writing over these past few chapters?_

Excited for the beginning!

-J


	4. Reapings Part I

_I know it's been too long; I'm really sorry. Anyway, here's part I of the reapings! I wish I could have had this up sooner, but my home computer is down and I have no free time with school and college stuff right now. These are Reapings 1-3 and next chapter will be 4-6 and so on...I was hoping to get 1-6 written but I'm just too under pressure to work through that, so you'll have to settle for this. Pardon my absence and enjoy._

* * *

**District 1**

_**Anatase Iridium, Victor of the 33rd Games**_

I'm not nearly as oblivious as these people seem to think I am; impervious to the chatter, the disdainful way they all speak to me. I mean, who do they think they are? Yeah, you may be from the Capitol, but me, I _won_ the Hunger Games. I think that in of itself earns some bragging rights, far more than that peppy bitch Esmeralda and her hoard of glittery freaks have.

They come around on Reaping Day every year. Hideous makeup, covered in glitter, tearing up my wardrobe and forcing their asinine rules of "poise" down my throat- it forces me to become just a bit touchy. Not something, I would imagine, that they want- I mean, Esmeralda's only going to be stuck on a train with me for the next three days and in a suite with me for six after that.

Serpentine, bless the poor man's heart, does not receive the love of the Capitol. Or, in other words, the same treatment- degradation in glitter. I'm a Career, not a princess, seriously, you imbeciles. Serpentine's laughter when I join him on the stage that day also helps in absolutely no way- if he wants to be of use around here, he could at least be subjected to the same humiliation of silver-studded hair and eyelashes.

"How was the torture chamber this morning, love?"

Smug bastard. Sometimes the need to split his gut open and drain him of every last drop of blood is so pressing I nearly die from the simple fact that I haven't done it yet.

"Perfect," I spit, finally, glaring at him.

"Well, you are the Capitol's princess." A pause. "Lighten up, babe, give me a smile," he reaches over to pinch one of my cheeks, "with those cute little dimples of yours. Those eyebrows are so cute they're killing me."

The _nerve_.

"Why don't you come over to play dress up with me next year?" I reply. "I'm sure they'd find something very fitting to accent that rather...lacking build of yours." I lean back in the chair smugly at the look of horror that crosses his face, but to my disappointment, it settles out quickly.

And then morphs into a smirk. "I'm a forty-five year old man, Anatase. That wouldn't be nearly the type of thing they're into."

"We'll see about that," I say, raising my eyebrows with a glare.

"Are you two done bickering?" Esmeralda snaps. "After all the time I spent to make you beautiful, Ana, you repay me like this. Well. We have two tributes to reap, so tidy yourselves up and chop-chop!" She turns to the crowd before saying, sharply, "Ladies first!"

I straighten up as she walks over to the reaping ball, hand darting in with absolutely no poise in the slightest. She draws back with a slip that probably holds the name of some twelve-year-old, but doesn't even have the chance to call it out when the first voice rings out.

"I volunteer!" The crowd of eighteens part around a well-groomed and attractive blonde- classic District One tribute, if I must say. She walks with an air of grace, ascending the steps with a brilliant smile as she takes the microphone from Esmeralda. "Renata Monae."

That's it, just her name in a calm, eloquent sort of tone as she moves to stand behind the escort, head held high and a look of pride on her face. It's hard to say whether she's arrogant- I suppose time will tell.

"And now for our boys," Esmeralda says, walking in those absurd stiletto heels to the opposite reaping ball. This time she gets through the first syllable of the name before we hear another voice.

"I volunteer!" The voice this time is not refined, not elegant. His movements are quick and when he reaches the stage, abruptly, he turns his head down ever so slightly as he speaks into the microphone.

"Kyler Gallenge." A long pause before he says, softly, "Thank you." This seems to confuse the escort, but not me, oddly enough. When Kyler turns around, his eyes meet mine ever so slightly and I see intent there. Intent for survival...

...and something else.

"Well, well, Serpentine," I say. "We may have the psychopath of the Forty-First Hunger Games on our hands here."

"And how, may I ask, would you know that?"

"Intuition," I snap. "I'll take the boy."

"I guess I have Renata," he says. "The better choice, really, Anatase. I'm surprised at how, after all these years, you still lack the indication of the stronger tribute."

"Just wait," I reply, waving my hand at him. "And please, leave my line of sight. Your face makes me nauseous."

* * *

**District 2**

_**Veronique Marzenti, Victor of the 18th Hunger Games**_

My hands are bleeding. It's one of the first things I noticed upon my entrance to the stage, the usually pale hands at my sides were painted a brilliant red, a sickening and vile red that I best not show Aristaeus. Not out of fear, of course, but out of worry- not many know that the man is an absolute mess behind closed doors, or that he cares too much for anyone that isn't himself.

He'd shove me around a bit, sure, but mostly to make demands of "Why aren't you taking care of yourself?" and ask about a thousand questions in regard to physical and mental wellbeing- I suppose that, if things were different, he'd have channeled that better.

Vivien was right; he would have made an excellent father.

For me, on the other hand, the thought of being a mother is one I cannot help but laugh at- I have no intention of ever raising a child. Being from harsh circumstances myself, I'm well-aware of my own ability to take care of somebody and that ability is lacking. I can't even take care of myself, which does seem quite amusing- I mean, a Victor from one of the most callous districts in Panem, unable to care for herself? Yet it's true. Somehow I know it's true and that doesn't help in the slightest.

I wonder what it would be like for me to let go of my past, to let go of everything that ever happened to me, to be a human again. It's something I'll never find out, of course, but I do wonder. Not that it matters, in the end. I'm doing well enough for myself. I can function in society. I'm doing a perfectly decent job of being a human being...

Not.

What matters is that I'm here on this stage for another year, my hands are bleeding and I'm trying to hide them from the stubborn man sitting in the chair right beside me; a feat not easily accomplished. The escort- yes, we got the jumpy one again- is fumbling with the slip she'd pulled out from the boys' ball, trying to open it rather ineffectively. If I wasn't a Victor and if my hands weren't bleeding, if I was the girl I had been at ten years of age, I would have wanted to help her. Now I feel nothing. She's clumsy, insecure and that's all there is to it.

"W-Wiley Ho-Houg-"

"I volunteer!" Comes the shout of what is sure to be another typical Career volunteer; I recognize him as Kolt Morrett, a stunning eighteen-year-old man wearing a grin that could kill as he races up to the stage. He practically jumps over each of the stairs, grabbing the microphone from the escort quickly and announcing. "Kolt Morrett, District Two, Victor of the Forty-First Games, yadda yadda. I'm going to show the pride of our District!" With that, he raises his fist in the air, before moving to his place behind the escort.

Someone must have spiked his cereal this morning; I've never seen such an energetic volunteer, not even from Two. Even now, he's tapping his feet slightly on the ground, as if he can't contain his excitement.

Well, volunteering is a big thing.

The next one is a girl who calls her name before the volunteers are even expected; she reveals herself as Alpha Acrain, a name everyone knows after the forsaken legacy of her sister. Aiden went a bit mad after that, everyone says, but in a lot of ways, Alpha seemed to have snapped even more.

Now, when she walks up to stand beside the escort, there is no emotion in her eyes, no expression on her face; she's nearly apathetic, expressionless like a perfect doll. Pretty, yes, but in that harsh, boastful sort of way- it's evident that Alpha's just as prideful as Kolt is, but it's also evident that the two are entirely contradictive to each other; the only problem is, which of them am I going to bring home?

"District Two, your tributes Kolt Morrett and Alpha Acrain!"

* * *

**District 3**

_**Everett Morse, Victor of the 17th Hunger Games**_

District Three is cold as it is every year; an icy chill over our heads from the wind, but still a colder presence among us, whispering through the crowd of children, the presence of fear. It is not unusual, not on this day, but so much fear in such a place has never been a good thing; far from it. I'm not one to think so darkly, don't believe in bad omens or any of that shit, but this isn't exactly what I'd call promising. Then again, District Three is never promising; I was a scared, fifteen-year-old boy who won the Hunger Games by means of a fluke. District Three hasn't had another Victor since and I don't think I'm simply reading into things there.

It's quiet too, almost too quiet. Some of the girls are holding each other's hands or crying, a few couples are saying goodbye, wordlessly. There is only a dark cloud on Reaping Day. Only the chance that we're going two more children this year as we have for the past forty and it very well could be anyone.

I briefly wonder why anything has happened up to this point; from the beginning of Panem, why the Capitol came to be, why the Districts would then rebel, why the tributes would then fight, why the tradition has continued...why I won my games, when it should have been that kid from Six, the one who'd held the knife in his hands as he looked down at me, hissing words I couldn't make sense of. Why he and the girl from One beat each other to a bloody mess right in front of me, both dying whereas I had done nothing?

Nobody does anything, that's the truth. Nobody, since the beginning of time, has done anything for anyone; that's the answer, plan and simple. The answer doesn't have to be elaborate or extravagant, so it's not. It's fact, pure and simple.

I trust the facts. It's a fact that everyone here today has something they're scared of; be it the games or something else entirely.

There are a few kids that I focus on; the ones not doing anything particularly out of the ordinary. Even though it may be ordinary on an ordinary day, today is not an ordinary day, so it's a breath of fresh air when there are those few who don't make it seem like the end of the world. With any luck, this year I'll get someone who's not an innocent, not full of fear. Maybe someone who's full of anger, of rage...a person who's volatile, who could cause something within the arena, a spark of some sort.

I have, honestly, always wondered what would happen if one of these days, all the tributes in the arena lay down their weapons, sit together on the ground and sing peace songs around a bonfire. How ironic that would be. The Capitol would devour themselves in anger. Not that it's a huge difference if they devour themselves as opposed to the districtspeople; we're all Panemian, of course.

There's a tap on the side of the reaping ball as Hestian, the only escort with hair longer than he is tall, reaches in a hand with black-painted finger nails, orange hair falling into his face as he looks up. "Girls, girls. Alexia Lectrion?"

There's a sudden shriek from a girl with bleached-blonde hair in the sixteens section. She's on her knees, pulling on the legs of some girl next to her who, in annoyance, kicks Alexia in the face. Her wailing only increases in volume as she presses her hands to her ears.

"Shut up, banshee!" Some kid shouts as the peacekeepers haul Alexia to her feet and begin walking her toward the stage. The screaming has dispersed, replaced by some whimpers and sniffles as she immediately tries to quell her emotions.

The peacekeepers drop her next to the escort, and, eyes darting around, she quickly grabs the microphone.

"District Three! I just want you to know that, that, that I'll win for y'all!" She tries to force a smile at this, but it's still rather shaken.

"Alright, gentlemen, it's Kevin Winslow."

"I volunteer!"

There's a young man, looks like a sixteen year old as well, with long dark hair and glasses making his way forward. Someone moves to say something to him, only to be stopped by a cold, "You. Shut the fuck up." He immediately pulls the microphone from Hestian's hand while tugging on the man's long hair. "Keiran Volke. Hear me?"

Silence. He shrugs, moving back next to Alexia, intentionally stepping on her foot when he takes his spot beside her.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Alexia and Keiran. Later."

* * *

**Questions:**

**Which of the tributes do you think will prove the most interesting of these six? Any early favorites?**

**Which of the mentors did you like best?**

**Did you catch the reference to my favourite video game? (Probably not, but hey, who knows?)**

**Until the next. Hopefully this update counts for something.**


	5. Reapings Part II

_I'm here again. This update was made uber quickly, thanks to those friends who keep supporting me. Hopefully I find another chance to update soon. Keep your fingers crossed! Anyway, Reapings 4-6 this time. Also, if you want more updates, reviews are invaluable. Or, at the very least, a PM please! Also, tell me if you see any possible allies for your tribute as time passes._

* * *

**District 4**

_**Kesiah Cerille, Victor of the 37th Hunger Games**_

I can't tell where I am. I can never tell where I am because there's not only one of me. I don't know how many doppelgangers I have, but I know it's a lot, and I know that pretty soon they'll show up and trick me like they always do. Circe- I can't remember her, not entirely, but she says she mentored me- told me that they aren't real. That's what Mr. Kennington said too; he said that I spend too long looking at the mirror. But they don't get that it's not a mirror; it's there, he's actually there, staring back at me with my face, and he makes those faces at me. All of them like to laugh, I've learned that by now, and so I laugh back at them because it would be stupid not to.

It's not that I'm in such bad shape now, I'm just trying to put some things together. Nobody else gets that, not when I'm stuck in there with all those white walls. They want me to think, maybe, but I think enough for me and for him and for them and for all twenty six of us- I've counted the number of doppelgangers I have and I come up with twenty six every time.

They don't have all the traits I do, of course; they don't have the scars on their wrists, but they have the same dirty blond hair and brown eyes and angular features. They don't wear the same clothes I do now, it's more of a uniform...sort of grey, I guess. Circe doesn't like it when I talk about them. Yanick doesn't either. But they like it, the doppelgangers. They like me, they want me, they need me. Sometimes I think I might be in love with the one who stays with me...there's a word for that, I think.

"Hey, Circe, what does it mean when you love someone who looks like you?"

Her eyes seem to bug out a bit at this. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sometimes I can still feel the drop too, hear the screams and feel the wind. I don't know what happened; I've watched it over and over but I don't understand what happened. I'm positive it was one of the doppelgangers who tied them up, who set that girl on fire and bashed one's head into a wall.

"Did you take your medicine today?" Circe asks, suddenly.

"Medicine?" I reply. I don't know a thing about medicine.

"You can't be stupid enough to still believe that they're vitamins, Kesiah," she answers. "You used to be such a well versed young man...don't know where they went wrong with you."

"Who went wrong with me?"

"You did, dumbass. Stared into those mirrors too long and it rotted your brain. I'm surprised you aren't infatuated with yourself."

"Ladies, do we have a volunteer?" The woman with her blue hair is asking and I'm not sure what she's talking about.

"Hunger Games," Circe says.

Oh, right. "What year is this?" I reply.

"The forty first," she answers, scoffing.

There's a rush then, two girls making their way toward us, before one trips the other. "Like hell you're doing this," says a brunette girl, shoving the other girl over the edge of the stage with what looks like a quick punch to the gut. I subconsciously hold my own side at this. Why'd she punch- oh, right. Volunteering.

"Myra Costello," comes the words from the girl mounting the stage; she's got a lovely smile, I note. I don't know what it is about her eyes but there's something in them that shows me that she's different than what she lets off. It's an aura of mystery; I like that. Maybe she'll come back this year.

"She's going to be the Victor this year," Circe says at the same time as I think it. "Looks like a fighter; indifferent, but a fighter." Pause. "Or she'll be a royal bitch like all the other District Four girls we've had. Not that you'd remember them, of course."

"I remember," I reply defensively. "There was...uh..."

"You can't remember," she snaps back. "You're too drugged up to remember the rest of your life. Sometimes I wonder why I even wasted my time getting you out of the Games. Should've let that Nine boy win."

"He hurt me," I reply, angrily. "You know he hurt me-"

"Your male, District Four, is Nevarian Winters-"

"I volunteer as tribute!" The shout is in a deep voice, deeper than Yanick's even. He's taller than I am, walking with long, powerful strides toward the stage. He turns to face the crowd with dark eyes, before saying, "My name is Wick Reef. I volunteer."

"They're all strong," I say. "Circe, are you going to save them again? Like you saved me?"

"Of course I will," she answers. "At least, one of them."

"Can you tell me how you saved me again?" I question.

"For Godssake, Kesiah, you're a grown man. You don't have time to waste with stories anymore." She flips her hair over one shoulder. "They think you can get better, you know," a pause. "I don't though. They're blind, but we both know you're never getting better." She points at the two figures in front of us. "See them? Him, her? They're real people. People worth saving."

"You saved me."

"A mistake I won't make again," she snaps. "You'll be no help. I'll mentor them both."

* * *

**District 5**

_**Talisen Madeus, Victor of the 32nd Hunger Games**_

So this is how it is. Another year, this time by myself; Edison left, Minhyuk left, and I'm alone. Of course, it's not like that matters; I used to be alone all the time. Even in the games I was alone.

I don't usually mentor. I don't like looking at kids knowing they're not going to live. Don't like looking at kids knowing every possible scenario they could die in; maybe they'd have their throats cut, like I did to my victims. It surprised even me, what I was able to do to people. You're not supposed to dabble in such things as black magic; hell, the other kids, back when I was reaped, made fun of me all the time for it. What people don't understand is that there are forces- unnatural ones- that you can't ignore.

That doesn't mean they won't die, though; actually, there's a four-point-one-six percent chance that one of them will come back, diminished more by the fact we have tributes who play the games for sport. So, what I'm saying is that the odds are never in the favor of District Five. If I was feeling merciful, I might just kill them on the train myself.

I was fourteen when I won, and it already seems like a lifetime ago. That boy with his skin painted black, I thought it was a nice touch. It had its uses; my games were the best, after all. Probably not, but I can say they were; I'm a Victor, I'm allowed to have bragging rights.

Edison, though, now that was a man. Gone off to the Capitol, going to be a gamemaker...well, the least we can do is support the man. I was taught by the best, after all- you won't see many people like Edison anymore. Yeah, he's an asshole. Stoic, callous, easily annoyed. His opinions on Panem were nearly primitive. His teeth were crooked and I couldn't focus on his face. He's killed every other tribute he's ever had. He drowned in self-pity for the majority of his life...

Eh, he's still one of the best. I learned my skills from him; don't let the tributes effect you, don't talk to them unless it's necessary, don't let them break you down. More importantly, don't give them what they want.

The kids this year, well...I'm going to enjoy seeing them get their first taste of hell. I'm not half the man Edison was (I'm also not even half his age,) but it doesn't mean I won't have fun pushing the life out of these young, exuberant teenagers.

Being on the other end...it's underrated, to be honest. Of course, maybe it's the fact that, since I won, I've gained the ability to smack around the children from when I was at the orphanage without fear of them beating me up. Back then I was such an easy target- now I've changed. Now I'm different. Now I have power.

Isn't that what everyone craves, power? I had it in the games too; they said it was a spur of the moment thing, but I'm positive that I'm the one who did it. I sent Yelena's spear into Bless' skull because he looked at me. The rest of this district was blind not to see it.

This year will be difficult, though...Edison...well, he was special to me. He means something to me, the way none of the others in Five did. He got me out. I owe him. I owe it to him to be what he was- exactly what he was.

If Edison Locke isn't returning, then me, I'll _be_ Edison Locke.

"For the boys," the escort says, smile on her face as she reads the slip. "Cress Fleeting."

The crowd almost immediately moves away from the boy; a tall, skinny black kid in the sixteens section. His eyes dart around momentarily, back and forth before he slowly but surely walks forward in a mechanized fashion. He mounts the stairs slowly but surely, giving a nod to me, but with no semblance of feeling in his eyes as he does so. I can tell he's standing rigidly, breathing heavily as he stares forward, devoid of any presence.

"And now, our lovely ladies," the escort says again, walking over to pull the girls slip. "The young woman joining Mister Fleeting is...Vendetta Maverick."

A girl walks forward calmly, short in height and stature, aiming glares at everyone around her. Walking up the steps, she glares at the escort, and then me, and then at Cress before her brow evens out ever so slightly and her lips twitch up into a half-smile.

"District Five, your tributes!" The escort calls, and I roll my eyes.

District Five never comes home.

* * *

**District 6**

_**Halimah Haldis, District 6 Escort**_

Today, I am in a place where history will be made. Today, I am in a place that is so entirely different than any place I've been in before. Today, ladies and gentlemen, I am in District Six. Which, I am proud to say as escort of this...picturesque place, is the most famous District in the entirety of Panem right now, save the Capitol. But the Capitol isn't a District, and here I am.

Yes, it's a glorious feeling to walk on these long, narrow streets again. The businesses haven't been doing too well, but all is bound to change!

You see, I am not like most of these...other escorts. I care about the district's people, I really do. Everyone seems to be taking the unfortunate victories as omens of some sort; it seems as though every place you look is in grieving. First, after Corolle died around the Thirtieth and then, last year, when Sungyeol died...I suppose the people just didn't know how to take it, being victorless.

Well, no worries about that. Soon enough I'll be bringing one right home to them! This year is the year of new possibilities, and I assure you all that you can expect great things of me. Very great things.

My shoes are, rather unfortunately, becoming thick with mud and grime. See, I should know better than to wear heels in district Six. Even now, the clouds make it seem as though it's prone to rain any minute now; I assure you, I won't be happy if it does. But, as I am always prepared, I do have an umbrella. If it gets too bad, I may even share it with the tributes! Oh, I'm sure they'd appreciate that. Nobody likes to be pelted by the rain, after all.

The peacekeepers help me ascend the stairs- really, they're such gentlemen- and I adjust my slight blue glasses, trying not to ruin the elaborate green makeup I spent all morning putting on as I do so. I walk, shakily, over toward the reaping ball for the girls, my hair being blown around too much by the wind- it's silver this year, very festive given our current storm records. I, for one, am in love with it. Silver seems to compliment everything.

"Our lovely young lady is Iris Acune!" I call, trying to lilt my voice just a bit higher on the end note. "Where are you, dear?"

She's practically skipping out from the section now, her blonde hair streaked with colors and several piercings covering her face. She's such a doll! I'm certain she's at least somewhat related to the Capitol.

"I love your hair," she says, climbing up to the stage. "I always liked silver. It matches so well with everything."

"My thoughts exactly, little miss!" I say to her, ruffling her hair.

"Don't touch my hair," she says, cross.

"Of course not, sorry." I turn back to the microphone, pulling it up as I walk to the boys' reaping ball. "And for our young man, we have Orphrey Tarrell!"

He's quickly made noticeable, other children moving away from him. Looking at me, he quirks an eyebrow calmly, before shrugging and walking forward, a smirk expression on his face. Now here, everyone, is an attractive young man. A very pleasing face, just like Iris. Together, they will be lovely.

District Six this year has a winner, I know!

"Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, let's have a round of applause for Iris and Orphrey!"

* * *

**Reapings 1-6, all done. Questions!**

**Which of these six stood out most to you?**

**Favourite tribute so far?**

**Favourite mentor so far?**

**Of course, also, how was my writing and portrayal?**

**Until later. :)**


	6. Reapings Part III

_Cranking these reapings out rapid fire. Thanks to all who have reviewed, really appreciate it. I hope you guys like this new chapter; as I am currently in a lot of trouble physically, I'm trying to get done as much as possible in the least amount of time. Don't expect such rapid updates from now on, sorry. :/_

* * *

**District 7**

_**Juno Yasiel, Victor of the 27th Hunger Games**_

"They shouldn't have to keep replacing it," Juniper said, hands brushing the side of my hip and upper thigh from where she was crouched next to me. "You'd think the Capitol would take better care of their victors."

"It's not a problem," I reply quickly. "I mean, at least it's _there_, Juniper. At least I didn't just get rid of the entire thing."

"It's been thirteen years and it's still infected," Juniper retorts, pulling herself back to a rigid standing position. "God, Juno, why can't you just let us take care of you? Mom and Dad and me."

"You're my little sister," I laugh. "It'd be pretty pathetic; a young woman taking care of her thirty-year-old victor brother."

"At least let-"

"There is no way I'm letting you walk me up to that stage, Juniper. Get my crutch."

"Is it so hard for you to accept help?"

"When the help isn't needed, yes," I reply, trying to be nonchalant. She's always been the better child- too good to be related to someone like me. Loyalty, though, is weakness, and she needs to learn not to show it. In a world like Panem, discipline and cruelty is the base of our very society.

If only I had learned that sooner.

"Juniper, just go home," I snap, finally, leaning my weight on the crutch as I face her evenly. She glares and, with a sigh, I add, "Mom and Dad and Jordan need you more. Just go and relax."

"I think the one who needs to relax is you," she answers, but turns on her heel anyway, flouncing away with but a crack in the perfect mask she always wears. One that I put there...it's for her own good. She can't be obsessed with a brother ten years older than her, one who isolates himself because he's too much of a coward to just move on and become at peace with life again.

Nobody understood what it did to me, seeing him- no, feeling him over me, hands squeezing the bloodied skin, the infection, his knife twisting into something already destroyed with that awful squelching sound. My screams, ever too loud, muffled by his heavy hands, the spearhead clenched in my good fist, blood leaking around it as I shoved it through him. My eyes broken...

He bled out on top of me, my hands stuck between the dirt wall of the grave and the weight of his body.

It was hours before they pulled me out.

It's a millennium before I reach the stage, knee turned in and foot turned out as I sit, attempting to cover up the pain of my hip, the way the metal ball momentarily pops out of the socket before realigning. I've seen the cuts in the mirror, the red rash, the popping veins...

There's no way to stop the infection.

Garo is on the stage beside me, head tilted back as he shakes. Too much alcohol again, it figures. I grab his arm roughly, and his eyes snap open to land on my face. "What ya want?" He growls.

"Wake the fuck up and focus," I answer, leaning back out of his reach.

"Juno..." he says, turning his head. "You need a drink. No focus anymore."

"I focus," I snap. "You don't."

"You can mentor alone perfectly well. Leave me alone," he says, unable to react before my hand smacks his cheek. Subconsciously, my eyes linger on the gold ring strung to the chain around his neck. "She'd want you to focus. To help them."

"Shut up," he snaps, suddenly alert. "And don't bother me."

"Lighten up, boys, and pretend to be friendly, won't you?" Saphi asks, shaking her hideously pink head. "Everyone is watching. Everyone."

"Don't start again," Garo says, waving a hand. "Calm your tits, woman."

"Please," I add hurriedly. "Get it over with, won't you?"

She turns, whipping back air, before saying, "Well then!" Her tap shoes make the stone floor echo as she unfolds the slip she'd grabbed. "Ladies, ladies, listen up." In an annoyingly high voice, she reads, "Eevie Rettle! Where are you, dear?"

A girl, short with light brown hair, is biting her lip now, looking around frantically. She faces forward again, eyes wide in shock as she wraps her arms around herself. A badly burned, yellow and red splotched hand catches my attention as she breathes heavily, body shaking. Another girl shoves her out into the open, and, slowly but surely, Eevie makes her way to the stage.

"There you are, dear," Saphi says, helping her over to her place with a hand on her back. "Let's see who your district partner is, then." She moves back to her spot, unfolding the second paper.

"Corban Dulvae!"

I stop breathing.

It's not because he's handsome or has an extreme reaction- nothing like that. Lean build, messed up dark hair and blue eyes...

He's a dead wringer for Ymir.

His lips quirk up into a smile- a fairly stunning one, surely for the cameras. I didn't notice until he moved up the steps that my hand has grabbed for Garo's, nails squeezing into the man's palm.

"It's not him," Garo says abruptly.

"He looks- Garo, that's Ymir, it can't..."

"Not him," Garo says quickly. "I've got the boy, you take the girl."

"I want him-" I begin.

"He may remind you of him, but Juno, Ymir's dead. You killed him."

* * *

**District 8**

_**Ophelia Fife, Panemian history teacher**_

District Eight is the most underappreciated place in Panem. This is the conclusion I reach every year I spend here, watching the lives of our youth blossom with the grace they will soon use in adulthood. The children here are like my own children; we may live in tenements crushed by smoke from the factories, but the point is that we live. That they live.

I taught my first class at twenty two. It wasn't any secret to the adults in this District that I was carrying blanks; I couldn't have my own child, so I'd take care of others. It was simple, to me. Being a mother was what I had wanted more than anything.

I didn't have a good mother; I was close with my father, up to his death, but my mother was the opposite. I remember that she used to lock my brother in a trunk if he took even a step out of line; me she just hit. I think that was easier to take.

If I had a child I would give them the world. For now my heart is split twenty-seven directions for each of my students. And that's how it shall be.

They don't deserve this- being treated like animals for the sport of the Capitol. If I could...if I could, I would wring the president's filthy neck.

For the past two decades, ever since back when I was in elementary school, I've watched two children be reaped, year after year. I don't know how or why it was never me, all I know is that I'm still here breathing. At certain times, I do wish that it was me the games had claimed...a teacher of history serves no real purpose in this hardworking, yet ever so muddled district.

Eight is made of honor, of integrity. One of these days the rest of the people will see that. These people kill themselves in labor for everyone else and the rich are still most kindly to the poor.

Eight is beautiful- to me, to the families, to the children and it will be missed if hurt. Later on, when I'm dead, it won't be changed. Eight will still be beautiful and the youth will still blossom and the system will still crush. But maybe others will see.

Sephora is sitting alone on the stage, yet another year without a victor. She's shaking, not from the cold, but from her fear. I know she wants to go home, to feel removed and untouched; she can't help the tributes and she knows it. I watched her games ten years ago and I know it hurt the district just as much as her.

It's a fate worse than death to live with memories.

Iskander, Naomi...two of my students lost to the games forever. Two precious lives, taken in the 35th and 37th. Two memories that I'll never be able to let go of.

The escort straightens up with a shiver, reading the first paper. "Lania Dellis!"

The girl, striking with her pale red hair and creamy white skin, widens her eyes almost impossibly. She looks, frenzied, from left to right, before darting out of the sixteens section. Almost immediately she is intercepted by a peacekeeper. She turns again, shoving her way through the fourteens, only to be grabbed around the waist, arms pulled behind her back as she is wrestled up to the dais, still kicking and shaking. She is unceremoniously dropped next to the escort, a grimace on her face.

"We've got a wild child," the escort says with a grin, clapping her hands together as she runs over to the boys' ball.

"Velion Caden!"

I'm in shock. That boy had little to no chance of being reaped. That boy, the poor boy, a paraplegic from the waist down after his legs were shattered by the machine. That boy who was my own student just half a year ago.

Velion, always a sweetheart, stays still for a few brief moments before his face contorts in shock. Tears begin to well in his eyes, and though I silently beg him not to cry, it seems he can't help it. He refuses to move, even with the other fifteen year olds shifting around him. His face is buried in his hands when the peacekeepers grab each side of his wheelchair, carrying it to the stage as the square is filled with complete silence.

Bless that boy's heart to die a painless death.

* * *

**District 9**

_**Ivoire Taniyah, Victor of the 13th Hunger Games**_

Amadis is dead. He died last year. He died because of Ananse, and that boy is unforgivable.

I don't want to call him my son, not after what he did to that girl last year. Not after the mask he wore was torn off when his brother volunteered for him. The sociopath...it's ironic how they're always the survivors.

I wanted to tell Poppy; she's my most successful mentorship, after all, but I can't tell her. Who wants to admit that they boy they bragged about for fifteen years raped a girl and laughed when his brother died? Who wants to admit that their prestigious firstborn died for a monster?

I know it's wrong of me as a mother. As a mother, I should be afraid for Ananse, afraid he might get reaped again. But I'm not. I want him to get reaped, and I want him to suffer. Is it wrong to hate someone that much, your own kin, your own flesh and blood? I won't admit that I've still got the scars on my neck from where he cut my throat a few weeks back. I don't talk to anyone about it. They'd judge me, wouldn't they? They'd judge me for being the mother of a monster.

I'm a victor but that has no jurisdiction in the area of lies, hatred and sin.

So here, at the reapings, I'm holding a confessional in my head with myself alone. Why, I'm not sure. Perhaps it's because nobody else is to listen to me. Nobody else wants to hear the stories that I'm hiding, not even my dear girl. Poppy is more of a daughter to me than Ananse has ever been my son.

Even now, she's so intently focused, but there's a sadness to her usual cheer. A sadness that should, by all rights, come on reaping day. A sadness I hold, over the life of all my past mistakes, over the life of my firstborn child...

Her knuckles have turned white, I notice, from the way she is clutching the side of her chair so tightly with those long fingers. I almost want to reach out to her, take the pain away, but instead I am looking in the crowd for that lovely, handsome face, that boy with his pale skin and dark black hair and those green eyes that kill me.

I find him. An egotistical smirk on his face, as he raises an eyebrow at me, before gesturing toward the stage with his head, to the escort.

"Nyla Artone!" She calls, and everyone's eyes fall on a twelve year old girl with long dark hair and eyes.

"What," she says, looking around. Just what. Nothing else.

And then, looking down, she begins to make a slow walk to the stage, a few whimpers echoing from her lips as she stands next to the escort.

I don't think it's intentional that I see the smile on her lips as she shouts at the escort, "Leave me alone!" The woman recoils in shock, looking over the crowd again.

"A-and now for the male," she says. "Milo Farrell?"

The boy has no wild reaction, moves forward with a slight shake of the head and a quirk of his lips. It seems as though he's laughing internally. His blond hair, longer than most boys, is a mess, and his posture is rather lacking, almost the type one would see in a person trying to hide something. He takes his place next to Nyla with a nod, and the two face forward in silence.

* * *

After the reapings have let loose, I walk to the train, casually and consciously.

"Aren't you lucky you still have me, mother?" He asks, that disgusting voice as he breathes in my ear.

"You're not my son," I say, shaking my head, as he 'tut-tut's me.

"I think the papers say something different, old hag. You're never going to keep those kids alive, fail them just like all the others. Blood everywhere, mother, I wonder what their guts look like, don't you? I call bright red, you say crimson. We'll bet on it...or, of course, you could kill them before the games...hm, I wonder."

"I taught you to hold your tongue," I snap.

"You taught me nothing mother, smoking those cheap Capitol cigars with a man on your arm. I think you should give me applause, the way I cut his head open so carefully- you know he wasn't my father."

"Go home, Ananse," I say. "I'll be back in a couple weeks."

* * *

**Questions.**

**Which reaping reaction has been your favorite?**

**Which POV so far has been your favorite?**

**Order of which you like tributes so far (add on next chapter)?**

**Order of mentors you like so far (add on later)?**

**Until the next.**


	7. Reapings Part IV

_Part IV of the reapings, 10, 11 and 12. Finally, we are done! _

* * *

**District 10**

_**Anthe Nikkali, Victor of the 22nd Hunger Games**_

"Dammit, Carelle, what have you gotten me into this time?" I question, trying to aim a glare at the girl behind me.

"I told you already, it's not from me, it's from Haiden," she answers, all but shoving me through the doors of the tiny shop. "Now go in and don't come out until he gives it to you."

"Carelle, don't think I won't remember this next year!" I call out as there's a tap on my shoulder.

"Anthe?"

"Yeah," I reply. "That's me." A pause. "Carelle says you have something that belonged to my fiancé."

"He was supposed to give it to you the year you volunteered," the man says, pulling me to look in the opposite direction. "All his savings from work. It's even got some smudges of oil on it- Haiden's fingerprints- but I didn't clean it yet. I thought maybe it would remind you more of him." He pulls a box down from the shelf, handing it to me. "Open it when you get to the reaping today. Carelle really thought I should give it to you."

"Who are you?" I ask, words leaving my tongue before I think.

"A friend," he says with a sad smile. "Now go. She should still be outside."

"Why now?" I add, slipping through the door.

"Because you've finally moved on," he answers. "You let go and so you won't be so effected anymore. The Games are harsh, dear. He wanted you to survive more than anything."

Carelle is indeed outside the door, waiting for me with a large grin on her face.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing concerning you, brat," I mutter as she throws me a look.

"I'm his little sister, you know. I deserve to know these things! It's not like I just spend all my time playing with children and doing dumb things like when I was younger. I'm a well-versed woman now."

"Nope, you're still a child," I say. "Haiden used to pinch your cheeks, didn't he?"

"Don't you dare," Carelle says, eyes widening as we draw nearer to the reaping area. "Anyway, I have to go take care of Ame and Ivilace." Ame and Ivilace were her daughters...it's nearly unbelievable to me that a girl like Carelle is married with children now, let alone that she's thirty-one years old.

I march calmly up the steps of the stage, slumping down in the seat saved for me beside Britter.

"Hello, Anthe," he says, smiling softly at me.

"Ready for another year?" I ask ruefully.

"Never," he says with a sigh. "I never am. I didn't even win like you did- it was a fluke you know. I never have anything to tell them."

"You were a master of hiding," I reply. "That's not nothing. I will admit, you were quite the paranoid child, but you came around. Look at where you got Cassander a couple years ago. And Merritt."

"That's different," he answers. "You helped me."

"Isn't that what a good mentor is supposed to do?" I laugh. "You lack wisdom, young grasshopper. I shall show you the ways of the fighter, and-"

"Now you're just mocking me," Britter interrupts, blush covering his cheeks. "Not again."

We turn our attention forward as the escort draws the first name. In a booming voice, he speaks, "Bouvier Rusk!"

The attention shifts to a girl in the fourteens section, a muscular girl who is probably a farm worker, with wild hair and even wilder eyes.

"You sadistic bastard!" She shouts. "I'm not going with you, you liars, you psychopaths!" She blindly hits a girl on her left as the peacekeepers come marching toward her. Immediately, she aims a blow into the first one's chest and begins to run before being caught by the arms. Two peacekeepers carry the kicking and screaming Bouvier to the stage as she continues to spit curses at them.

"Well then," the escort says, unraveling the next slip. "Maddox Viatelle!"

This time it's a boy shouting, marching his way out from the fifteens' section, mouth curved in a growl. Oh, he is _pissed_. I watch as he stands right in front of the stage, saying calmly.

"Damn you."

This time, the peacekeepers make their way toward him, but he runs at them first, punching one in the face before being pushed up the stairs. He looks at me sharply, defiance all over his face. "You just sit there and do nothing? Every year?" He turns to the crowd. "I won't die, Ellie!"

He and Bouvier are pushed beside each other, both aiming glares that could kill at the escort.

"Uh...Bouvier and Maddox, everyone," the escort says, slipping away quickly and all but dropping the microphone.

"That was eventful," I say.

* * *

We make it to the train when I open the box for the first time, staring down at its contents.

A silver ring with a small white jewel, the sides still covered in dirty fingerprints.

He wanted to marry me.

* * *

**District 11**

_**Mihara Simera, Victor of the 36th Hunger Games**_

Black. Grey. White.

Red.

The fields have been scorched since the accident last year, the accident that took my mother away from me. I can look over the landscape for the steps of the Justice Building, but all I see now are the varying shades of darkness; scorched black trees and white-grey ash. Everything dead, but it's still not like hell.

I've been to hell, after all. Two days in the boiling river of sinners' blood, hidden inside hell0hides made by man. It killed me, hell. I was alive when I entered and I left dead just like the other twenty three children. Nobody else survived like I did. Yet in the end, it seems everyone else lives while I don't...what is living when you have nothing to live for?

Is it right to breathe when you have no heart? To see, to touch and hear without any inflection? I am numb. I am dead. That is all I am.

Just another corpse.

Even now I'm only rigid, sitting here as a mannequin would, head bowed and eyes barely open. Axel has an arm around my shoulders as he speaks into my ear, tries to promise me.

"You'll be done this year, Mihara. You'll mentor a Victor. They'll live. Just remember that. Keep it in mind."

"I'll fail," I reply automatically, staying still. Marella, the escort, holds the care from the females' ball up as she reads it with a sharp intake of breath.

"Namira Hemlock!"

The girl reveals herself quickly- she's pretty, smooth mocha skin and long black hair, mostly curved features. Her body tenses momentarily before she walks forward brusquely from her section, approaching the stairs with a long sigh, looking down and then back up before ascending the steps. Her eyes dart back and forth between everyone, meeting my own and lingering. There is a dark, bubbling rage in their depths. Almost black- they say eyes are a mirror to the soul, and if this is true, Namira's heart is even more convoluted than my own.

She turns casually, no words, just waiting for the next name. Marella, the fool in her purple heels with her lavender skin, nearly falls as she reaches a hand into the males' reaping ball.

"Jerard Karnik!" She reads, looking over the crowd.

Nothing. The perimeter has fallen into absolute silence before there is a hushed murmur of the crowd.

Then a boy shoves his way into the open, walking forward calmly. He's tall and well-build, standing rigidly with clenched fists as he marches onward. His lips curve into a grimace as he reaches the steps, and I note how his shoulders are slumped, almost in defeat or chagrin. He stands next to Namira quickly, facing outward as well.

They're both hiding demons. Strong ones, worse than even Cerberus whom I killed.

But these demons couldn't be more different.

"Do you mind if I take the girl?" I ask Axel, receiving a shrug.

"She's yours, then."

"Alright," I say. Because I already know. I already know what she'll be capable of in the arena. She's a survivor.

Like me.

Back then, at sixteen, I had hardly been prepared for the hell I would face in that arena, that disgusting and sickening hell that killed men greater than myself. These two are more accustomed than I ever was. Let's just hope that they're accustomed to pain as well...

...after all, isolation is a fate worse than death.

* * *

**District 12**

_**Thanh Chiem, District 12 Mentor**_

Crack. Rip. Tear. Shatter. Pound.

That was the sound of my predecessor's bones. District Twelve never wins, they told me, but I'm a nineteen year old boy from a deadbeat family and I never win either. Paradoxical, isn't it, because District Twelve will win and they'll screw someone over to do it.

Crack. The sound of my mirror this morning.

Rip. The sound of my oversized shirt from my little sister tugging on it.

Tear. Tear correlates to tear, like the ones that leaked from my predecessor's eyes.

Shatter. The sound of my mind after seeing my sister in last year's games.

Pound. My fists against the chest of the peacekeeper at my home last year.

They're always so intrusive, you know, so sick and invasive. This world is like a disease, crawling inside the sores of our feet, parasites blooming and polluting the already polluted. Kill them, maybe, kill me more. Kill the children and their parents, that's what's in store.

Well, in the end, it's always just up to one thing.

Fate. My dear friend, fate.

We can laugh at these fools together.

You see, the Capitolite visitor told me this morning that I was ill-equipped; nineteen, from a family already hindered by the games, father a miner...she barely took note of how I actually looked until after my predecessor had his way with me. Then she called me handsome- if only I didn't wear such tattered clothes. But, woman, if only you could see that clothes are threads strung together, meant to be tattered and torn.

My sister is fourteen this year. Phuong. And I must admit I feel a twinge of fear for her. But fate is the decision maker here, and I am left to stay his friend now.

It has been exactly three hundred and eighty seven days, four hours and thirty five minutes since something good last happened.

But this year I'm bringing home a victor.

Our escort, Hashel, has been a bubbly man since the day I met him, two years prior to this moment, at my predecessor's home. My predecessor, Zair, was a man of few words, and I was not one to defy that; for the most part, I was his mouth, although my tongue often jumbles on itself and mixes proper sounds into a menagerie of idiocy. Zair was, by far, my best friend, save the friends that I hoped to have had yet never did. I feel disturbed when I remember how the peacekeepers killed him.

One cut to the neck that build a river of blood. All of them could have drowned in it. The question was who was to build the boat to float on top of the red sea, to overcome the obstacle it was presented with?

Well, it must have been me, otherwise I would not be here, speaking as I do now, am I correct in this assumption?

Hashel has finished his animated talk of the Capitol, is now tapping his long fingers on the rim of the boys' bowl, giving a pointed look at the slip held in his "perfectly manicured" fingers.

"Dalios Foster," he states. "What a lovely name. Where are you, Dalios?"

The boy wastes no time in coming forward, a chubby twelve year old with brown hair and round cheeks. He reminds me slightly of my bother Anh when he was that age, save the features, for this boy is certainly pale and Caucasian.

He nods to the escort rapidly, grasping his hand to shake before turning to me and extending his hand. I quickly shake it and he walks to the mayor, does the same for him.

What an odd boy. Well, politeness and courtesy are the essence of the front of society. It should be nice, to see someone less animalistic than most.

And on that note, the girl comes forward.

"Rydel Dimandis, another lovely name! Young lady?"

The air is cut by a scream- a lovely and shrill, high pitched scream that represents the feralness of us humans. Oh, such a lovely sound, yet so dark, so insane.

The peacekeepers have grabbed the girl- a skinny blonde twelve year old, the same age, yet the exact opposite of Dalios. She's thrashing about in the arms of the peacekeeper, throwing out a number of potential obscenities within the sound.

This is going quite well so far. I am very pleased at what I have been gifted to work with.

"Now, fate, my dear friend," I say, "we are no longer alone. Dalios and Rydel will be yours to work with." No answer. I laugh. "I'll let you have your way, then. Show me what you're capable of."

* * *

**Finally, the reapings are finished!**

**Questions:**

**Which of these six stood out most to you?**

**Which District pair so far is your favorite?**

**Favorite tribute at the current moment?**

**Favorite mentor at the current moment?**

**What POVs would you be most interested to see next chapter?**

**And, of course, how was my writing?**


	8. Train Rides Part I

**Train Rides: Part I**

* * *

**Warrick Reef, District 4**

Almost as soon as I'm herded onto the train, I know I've made an incredibly stupid mistake in leaving. In leaving her.

It's obvious to Myra that I'm not a Career; I can see it in her glare, the way she looks at me with those disdainful eyes. She's been talking a lot with Circe since we boarded; trying to con some type of strategy out of here. Her rigid stance, her folded arms, her raised brow...everything about her points her out as a liar. A rather obstinate one, too, if the way she beat up that girl at the reaping has anything to say about her.

I'm more focused on keeping my eyes down and my ears focused on the whirring of the fan, perhaps glancing out the window occasionally. Second-guessing myself is never a good thing; it's one of my worst flaws, according to my mother, something my father did a lot of himself before the accident.

My father is something I prefer not to think about- out of sight, out of mind, as I should believe. That holds true in any given situation. If you don't think about something long enough, it becomes easier to ignore the demons in the closet, the psychological impacts of every subject.

I wanted to win for my mother, wanted to make her proud, save her from the growing depression we're falling into, the money we're wasting away. But now...now I think I would have been better off staying there with her. What good is it to her if I come home in a body bag? Nothing is solved. In fact, everything becomes even worse than where we'd left it before.

Things may be in a tough spot right now, but it's fact they can always get worse.

I regret this.

"Hey, Wick, come over here, will you?" Circe asks, and, raising an eyebrow, I stand, walking over and sitting calmly in the seat next to her.

"Yes?" I question, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I wanted to make sure you're sticking with the Careers," she started. "It's easier for me to know all the variables about my tributes, mostly whether I'm mentoring you two together or separately, and with your lack of training, according to Myra, I thought I should know what we'll be facing."

"I haven't made up my mind yet," I settle on replying. Myra almost snorts at this.

"Haven't made up your mind or are too scared to?" She questions. "I wouldn't bother even attempting, Wick. As soon as the others find out you aren't one of them, you'll be the first one they target. I'd be glad to make it happen, really- it might be less painful that way."

"I'm sure you're being honest there," I counter. "You think you can fool everyone else with that mask you're trying to keep up, but we both know you're a liar." A pause. "You lied about him, after all."

Her eyes fix a glare on me, and though she seems as though she'll say nothing, she proceeds to spit, "Don't waste time talking about such trivial things. He's nothing more than a bastard, anyway, a deadbeat who doesn't deserve what he's been given...scum. _Like you_."

"Since you two are being uncooperative, I'll take it as separate mentoring," Circe says. "Make sure you sort out your... _issues_ the next few days. It would be nice if we could at least make civil conversation." She glances at me. "I know you don't want to come back in a _coffin_, so I would advice focusing on a weapon. Kills earn more sponsors, after all, and with how unamiable you two seem to be, I could make sure that neither of you receive _any_."

"I'll be civil if she will," I reply.

"Pinning it all on me, then? Wow. Nice move." Myra says. "As long as you stay away from me we shouldn't have any problems."

"I have no objections," I say, slamming the chair back and standing to my feet. "I'll be in my room, then."

I turn on my heel, walking brusquely down the hall of the train car, nearing the room I'd be spending the next two days in when an arm darts out, pulling me into the shadows.

"What are you-!"

"Shut up," comes the reply, undeniably masculine, heavy breathing in my ear. "Don't trust them. Don't trust her or her or any of them. Okay?"

I manage to free myself from the grasp, watching as Kesiah stumbles out from behind me, blond hair a mess and eyes burning.

"Thanks for the tip," I say, "but I already knew that, so if you don't mind."

"No, no, you don't get it. She'll gut you, she'll bleed you dry...Circe's lying to you, she'll lie and lie and then she'll run you into the ground. Myra wants your skin, Warrick Reef, don't let her have it...they told me so, they always tell me." He shakes his head, pushing me with one hand closer to the room across the hallway. "Don't trust them, she's a bad person, Wick, she'll hurt you and chain you and burn you. Kill her."

"How am I going to-"

"Kill her." He says decisively. "Kill her and kill Circe and kill everyone. You need to kill me."

The door slams open and I am shoved into the small room roughly before it pulls closed behind me with a loud and final click.

Resolute.

I know I have to kill Myra. But am I really strong enough to do it?

* * *

**Cress Fleeting, District 5**

"Four point one six six six five repeating." I say, quiet enough to escape unnoticed but loud enough to break the silence.

Silence is the indefinite, excelling killer of men and women alike. There is no running from silence. There is no running from time. There is no running from the calculations that say I have a four point one six six six five repeating percent chance of returning to District Five. There is, however, escaping people and escaping humanity and escaping reality.

For me, living isn't reality. It's a plane of reality, one that's parallel to existence but it is not existing. I think, therefore I am. How trivial a phrase. If thinking is exceptional proof of being alive, there is no proof. How does a man know he cannot think after he is dead? Looking through the anatomy diagrams in my standard textbooks for health classes, it seems that although the nervous system is made to unwire when the heart stops, there is nothing that stops its connections with the brain. If there is no more flowing of the blood, does that mean there's no more brain waves to be sent? It seems farfetched that everything would just stop in said manner.

I have no care, however, for things as how the mind works post-mortem. There are so many other things to think about. Existentialism, is, the very meaning of overrated. In a games played for sport of death, how much is knowledge worth? Like the treaties made between the Capitol and districts, diplomacy is nothing more than a fragile slip of paper. It is meant to be torn, it is meant to be turned into scraps that aren't worth more than a thirty-second hold in the short term memory.

"Four point one six six six five repeating."

"What was that?" Vendetta questions half-heartedly, eyes focused on the landscape passing by the windows in a blur. The train is likely going at seventy miles per hour, one hundred and twelve point six five four zero eight kilometers, so if she could actually focus on anything outside the glass, I would be impressed.

"Our odds of survival, not made as accurate as they should be." I answer, throwing it out there in a tone so casual it should be uneffective.

"Why would you waste time focusing on that?" She questions, still not facing me.

I shrug. "Numbers may come in rational, irrational, real, imaginary, simple, complex and integer forms, but they all have a single answer. Is it not better to focus on one answer alone than it is to focus on many answers?"

"Where's your sense of creativity?" She asks, slightly humorous tone.

"I believe in facts," I reply. "If by creativity you mean philosophy then I could certainly enlighten you as to possibilities of creativity that do not deviate incredibly much from standard views of the word-"

"By creativity I don't mean textbook," she adds. I furrow my brow.

"I find it to be that you may give good advice."

"I just have time to kill," she replies. "It's obvious there's not much to be said at this point."

"In reality, killing time is only a phrase for the multifarious of ways which time kills us," I say.

"Multifarious?"

"Multifarious is the phrase for that which is greatly diverse or manifold."

"Yeah, got that," she adds. "You have such a largely overrated vocabulary."

"Excuse me for actually excelling intellectually unlike so many other humans. You are all so trivial, unable to find out that which you spend your eternity searching for- eternity is wasted if not on furthering the brain."

"Don't you dare call me an idiot," she snaps, glaring at me finally as she stands. "You overestimate yourself."

"To overestimate is to fall, so I do not overestimate myself because to do so would mean to fail in my own world."

"You're insane," she says, shaking her head. "How do I always end up near the crazy ones?"

"Sanity is a stretch of the mind."

"Is that so?"

"Well, specifically, sanity is defined as soundness of judgment," I start, only for her to sit again with a shrug.

"What do I care anyway?"

"Caring is null," I reply.

"I'd drink to that."

* * *

**Maddox Viatelle, District 10**

It's easier to pretend not to care. Shove off the fact that I just got reaped, say I'll be able to kill twenty four other kids to get back to what little I had to begin with. To show I care would be to admit defeat. What I need is something to show that I'll be the victor the Capitol wants, something that'll put me in their favor. I've already proved my strength- now comes the time to prove my charisma.

That's Anthe's view on things, at least. She's one of the more amiable victors, as far as I can tell- a lot of them are bitter, sullen, demented. They have right to be. If I was a victor, I would imagine to not be entirely pleased with life after. Life as the Capitol's pawn? It's a miracle they haven't all killed themselves.

Well, my wits are telling me that I have to put up with it. It would be so much easier to just give in and go back to District Ten wrapped in plastic sheets. But winners aren't the ones who give up. Victors never say that they couldn't fight- save Britter, who, well, actually couldn't fight, but regardless of that, if I want to be a victor, I'll have pull my shit together and liven up.

Bo's been seething this entire time. Every time I look over at her, scowl on her face and arms wrapped around herself, I have to resist the urge to just let out a laugh. It's pretty ironic, really, I never though there would be someone more disdainful of reapings than myself, but I've met her. Now I've seen everything.

So the Capitol likes fire, they like drive, they like charisma and the people who can play it up for the audience and the viewers.

Already have two of those checked off.

"Can we watch the reapings?" I ask, sitting up a bit straighter. Usually, Ellie would have made those types of decisions, back in Ten. Hopefully if I get a look at the other tributes I'll be able to at least understand some of what's going on around here.

"Who cares?" Bo questions. "If you want to you should just do it already."

"I think I will, then," I snap. "You've got a pretty bad temper, princess."

"Don't call me that!" She snaps. "I could probably crush you if I wanted to, anyway."

"Are you making fun of my size now?" I ask her. "Really? I've never even met a girl as big boned as you."

"Well you-"

"I thought we were going to watch the reapings, kids," Anthe says with a wink to me. "Come on. It's getting late already, might as well do it now."

We sit on the chairs around the television as it snaps to life with District One. I can't say much except for that both are volunteers and the boy seems to be a bit more volatile than the girl will be.

District Two has what seems to be an incredibly childish boy and a very perfectly trained girl. The girl from Two is too much like the girl from One. They'll probably end up causing trouble in the Career pack at some point.

Three has a volunteer- Keiran Volke, I acknowledge, trying to keep track of that name. The girl seems like an idiot.

Four has two volunteers, a girl who beats another off the stage for the position and a boy who seems lacking. I shrug them off. Typical, for the most part.

Five's tributes both seem to be inwardly angry but there's no large reaction.

Six's girl is obviously a Capitol transplant of some sort- looks pretty ditzy too. The boy seems to be hiding something. I add the name Orphrey Tarrell to my inner list.

Seven is typical again, though the girl's hand is seriously burnt.

District Eight catches my attention- the girl, spirited, tries to run several times, unsuccessfully of course. The boy is disabled from the waist down- paraplegic, I figure. He's crying too, something that doesn't bode well for him in the future...I can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy. If it wasn't such a stupid move, I would have allied with him. Velion Caden, I file away.

District Nine's pair don't look too out of the ordinary either. Then there's me and Bo.

Our reaping's the most eventful.

I keep tabs on both tributes from Eleven- Namira and Jerard. They're both dark mannered, the boy being hulking and the girl's eyes shining angrily.

Twelve has a couple of little kids reaped, and I internally decide they're both bloodbaths.

Okay, so this helped me with literally nothing at all. I mean, even if it was something Ellie would have done, all I got out of this was that almost the entirety of the tributes this year are either threats or bloodbaths.

"Wow, so many details," Bo says sarcastically. "Are all these kids stoned? I swear none of them even looked bother except us."

"The boy from Eight cried," I point out.

"Crying, sure." She says with an eye roll, and I frown.

"Well it's something."

* * *

**Rydel Dimandis, District 12**

I've never seen so much food.

The escort is glaring at me, his hair a mess as he clears his throat. I'm eating with my hands, yes, but I really can't bring myself to care- why should I care? It's a luxury that these people don't seem to understand.

My hands are still dirty but I can't bring myself to pay much attention to that. I'm stuck between tearing into a chicken leg and aiming glances over at Dalios who is doing absolutely nothing, having finished his "proper" meal, no hands or anything. Well, he can do what he likes. I'm not wasting my chances.

"So," our mentor says, settling back in his seat. "Rydel Dimandis and Dalios Foster, my lovely protégés, what should I know about you?"

"I'm a hmless orhan an neer eat." I say with my mouth full before looking at him. His face is blank. "I'm a homeless orphan and never eat," I state again and he nods. "Also, I don't like people." My eyes slide over to Dalios again.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "Why don't you like people?"

"They lie," I reply casually, not mentioning that I've probably lied much more than they have.

He nods at this quickly, before looking at Thanh.

"Well, all I know is that I'm worried about my father." He pauses. "I don't really like not knowing what's going to happen to him."

"What do you think would happen to him?" Thanh asks curiously.

Dalios shrugs. "What do you think would happen to your family if you were reaped?"

"Quite a strategy, young man," Thanh says, avoiding the question. "Very admirable. Hoping to confuse some Capitolites like that?"

"I don't think I need to confuse them. They probably do that on their own," comes the answer as I aim a look at our escort, fixing his hair from a reflection in the silver cup.

"What is it, dear?" He questions.

"Mind your own business, idiot!" I reply, sticking my tongue out with a hint of satisfaction to myself. I kick my legs a bit beneath the table, glancing around the area. "Why isn't there more to do here? I thought anything the Capitol held props on would be more exciting than this."

"The Capitol is bland in respect to the districts," Thanh says. "I think that was a given. What do you propose for excitement?"

"I'd like to jump off the roof of the train," I say, smiling. "Oh, wait, then they'd be missing a tribute."

"Why would you even consider that?" Dalios asks.

"Why wouldn't you?" I retort.

"Why wouldn't you think I wouldn't?" He questions.

"Children, children, let's not take such offense." Thanh says. "Unfortunately, your escort is a stick in the mud and your mentor's already half broken mentally, so the only thing there is for you right now are the reaping recaps." A pause. "I'll let you go start them, if you want."

"What'd be the point?" I ask with a small sigh. "There's never anything to do anyway...ugh. I hate life sometimes."

* * *

**Train Rides part I. Wick, Cress, Maddox and Rydel. Now, questions.**

**General thoughts on the POVs?**

**Which of these tributes did you like the most? The least?**

**Which District pair did you enjoy reading the most?**

**Until later. :)**


End file.
